They were the hands of Jesus...

(Jackson, 3 yrs, holding my hand.)

They were the hands of Jesus. The same hands three years ago but just a tad thinner now.  His padded fingers danced across my cheek and those truth words cascaded into my soul, “What is it Mommy? Don’t cry.”

 He started this when he was two. Now , the age of six , I hear the wooden chair fight against the floor as he pushes his body up and away from the televisions  animated creation of dragons, swords, and spells. Setting all the thrill of a flickering screen aside he runs over to me, two rooms away, because he heard me. He heard his mommy weeping. Those boy fingers find their familiar place on my face and he does what he always did - he wipes.  It’s as if time had never passed. It’s the learned instinct of living through tragedy that he replays. Climbing into my lap, he gazes concerning into me, then holds me and says, “What is it Momma? What is it? Don’t cry” and brushes my salt drops aside. He is a bit rougher now, but that will change over time, when he meets a young lady and he does the same for her, for his children, his grandchildren.

 Then in days set out, like his aunt ( the sister he saw me grieve) he’ll stand face to face with HIM and fingers so familiar yet desperately longed to know-fully will wipe across Jackson’s face and they will know glory together tearless. 

(My Jackson, 6 years old)